“What do you mean?” Samuel asked.
“There was a picture,” she continued. “Four constructs, laid out on tables in a cross, with four artificers standing over them with their hands on the construct’s chests. The passage around the picture spoke of the early days of constructs and their makers, and of…and of the creation of the Chroniclers.”
“Didn’t you say this was a book of myth?” Samuel asked.
“Yes, but it was the next part of the passage that caught our attention. Mane used to say every myth has its roots buried somewhere in truth. The passage named the four artificers: Solmenius, Dracanthus,” she hesitated, “Acthemenius, and Aesamaelus.”
Samuel’s head swam at the implication. “Let me see.”
Eriane’s face scrunched. “That’s the problem.” She split the book at a bookmark and when she laid it flat, Samuel could see there were several pages missing, the ragged remnants of their bound edge slipping up between the others. “At the time, we didn’t think we could get the book out of the Library, so Pare tore out the pages and we were bringing them to you in the Grotto. They’re… They were still in his pack.”
Samuel sank to a knee beside the table, his fingers resting on the bits of torn parchment. “Are there other copies?”
“Only four are known, only two anywhere we could get to.” She scrunched up her face again, as if preparing for an admonition. “The first was housed in the Library of Kelef,” she gestured to the book in front of them. “The other is in the great Artificer’s Guildhouse in Balefor.”
“And I take it that’s not an option?” Samuel asked. Eriane just shook her head, downtrodden. He watched her expression transform before his eyes, though, replaced by the same sly grin she wore whenever she had an idea. “What?” he asked.
“I think I know where to find Dracanthus.”
• • • • •
In a few weeks they would set off, as the onset of spring curtailed any new snowfall, and the workers in Kelef would begin clearing the roads to the city. Jo’s maps showed them all the routes out of Kelef. There was another road into the city from the west, the route Colton and Bales must have used after the rockslide had destroyed the road from Morrelton. How the two of them could’ve made the roundabout journey so fast was a mystery, and one Samuel would likely never solve. Eriane’s findings would lead them east, over the rest of the pass through the high mountains and into the open plain that ran all the way to the eastern oceans.
Her route took them through a large area marked on the map only as The Drain. Jo explained the inhospitability of the place, a dead expanse that would threaten both Eriane and Samuel’s safety. A place so bereft of life it was rumored its center was devoid even of khet. Their destination lay far to the southeast of the expanse. Samuel suggested they circumnavigate the desert, but Eriane was insistent, eyeballing Samuel in a way that urged him not to further the discussion in front of Jo.
After Jo had retired for the evening, Samuel rekindled the subject. “So what’s in The Drain that’s so important?”
“Samuel…” She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “There’s someone I need to see there.” She unrolled one of Jo’s maps of the eastern expanse, pointing to a small settlement near the edge of The Drain. “We’ll stop here, in Porral. It’s a small village, so you should be safe there while I go take care of this.”
“How do you know this place?” Samuel asked.
“It’s… It’s where I’m from,” Eriane said. That’s where I grew up. Before Mane took me in.”
Samuel nodded. “Ah. Well, you’re mistaken if you think you’re leaving me there while you go off on your own.”
Eriane lowered her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Samuel, it’s too dangerous.”
“That’s your argument for me staying behind?” Samuel said. “You speak to me of the danger of what you’re about do and expect that to convince me to let you do it alone?”
“I can’t ask you to come with me,” Eriane said.
“Then don’t ask. I’m coming with you,” Samuel said.
Eriane allowed a smile to emerge. She reached out and squeezed Samuel’s hand.
“It wasn’t too long ago you yourself said ‘Not you. WE’.” Samuel said. “So. Where are we going?”
Eriane chewed her lip, as though indecisive about what to tell him. The young face that regarded Samuel was at once the face of the girl he’d met in Mane’s cabin not too long ago and the face of someone altogether different. She settled her resolve and looked Samuel in the eyes.
“I’m going to see a man about a gun.”
EPILOGUE
* * *
As winter melted into spring, the southern valley was pelted with the constant rainfall that made the little farming villages in the area so prosperous. Taeman detested travelling under these conditions, but the caravan with whom he traveled made some of their best money helping these farming communities prepare for the coming year. If the previous year’s crops had been fruitful, the farmers would have plenty of stores left by the end of winter to fund their trade with the caravan, who would provide them with all manner of alchemical solutions, traps for predators, building materials, and repair services for everything from fences to scarecrows to wagons to constructs.
Taeman had to admit business was good. He’d sold almost all his stock, and was now enjoying a steady stream of new income from repairing and replacing farming constructs, many of which he’d provided to these same farmers in the first place. It was times like this, however, when he was forced to work out in the rain and muck and directing his small crew of constructs on stabilizing his wagon against the driving wind, he almost felt like it wasn’t worth it.
The caravan had stopped just outside a small village that could barely be called such, a smattering of low huts surrounded by sheep pens and containing one large, barn-like building that housed their constructs and equipment for farming as well as a small slaughterhouse. The visit hadn’t been entirely lucrative, and the village wasn’t large enough to have an inn or even a hospitable tavern. There were at least three more stops like this in the coming weeks before they would approach a reasonable town, and even then Flagonstave—the all-too-clever name of a collection of ramshackle buildings that had sprung up around a dirty roadside inn called The Flagon & Stave—barely qualified.
At least they have an inn, Taeman thought. And ale. And maybe even a real bed. He checked the sturdiness of the braces to ensure his wagon wouldn’t blow over in the night, his feet sloshing in the muddy ground. All the caravan’s horses were huddled on the leeward side of the wagons, taking advantage of what little shelter they offered from the wind. Satisfied everything was in place, Taeman clomped his way up the steps on the rear of the wagon, knocking his boots along the sides to clear as much mud away as possible.
As he reached the top of the stairs, a glint of light caught his eye, the flickering of a candle flame from within the wagon. Taeman didn’t remember lighting a candle or a lamp. By reflex, his hand dropped to the hilt of the dagger at his waist, a weapon rarely drawn and never used, but comforting nonetheless. With his free hand he pulled his hood away from his bald head and pushed open the door, taking the top step and leaning into the small space to see.
Everything was as he had left it, except for two candles now burning on his workbench. A figure stirred in the shadows to the back, amorphous in the dim light. “Who goes there?” Taeman said, failing to infuse his voice with the confidence he felt the increased volume would portray.
The figure moved, a cloaked shape in the darkness. Candlelight revealed gloved hands that moved to draw back a hood and revealed long, dark hair framing a slender face of coffee or olive, a face Taeman knew all too well. His heart thudded in his chest and his voice failed him. The cloaked man leaned forward into the light and looked Taeman in the eyes, pulling at the fingers of one of his gloves to remove it. He rubbed his bare fingers together and there was a crackle of energy to them, a deeper black even than the shadow from w
hich he’d emerged. Taeman felt a wet warmth creeping down his thighs.
“Hello, Taeman,” Jacob said. “We have a lot to discuss, you and I.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Let’s start with the obvious: You bought my book. Whatever storefront you bought it through and however you discovered it:
THANK YOU.
I write, and will continue to write, because I have stories in my head that I want to share. A perpetual bit of writing advice is “write the stories that you want to read”, and that’s exactly what I did. Not living in under a rock, I assume that there are at least a few people out there with the same tastes in stories as me. Hopefully that’s you.
So here’s where I shamelessly ask for your help.
Digital discovery being what it is, you likely picked this book up due to word-of-mouth, or perhaps a reader review. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to rate and/or review it at your storefront of choice, or on your favorite bookish social site like GoodReads or LibraryThing. Reviews translate into publicity, which doesn’t just feed my ego, but gives me the ability to keep on writing stories. I cannot stress enough the importance of reader reviews to authors like me.
You already have my utmost gratitude just for purchasing my book in the first place. A review or rating would just be the cherry on top.
I’d love to hear what brought you to my writing. I am always available online at geekelite.geekerific.com or www.chroniclersaga.com. You can also find me occasionally tooling around the comments on Chuck Wendig’s www.terribleminds.com, or on my author page over at GoodReads. Social media-wise, you can find me at the Chronicler Saga group on Facebook (www.facebook.com/groups/chroniclersaga), or on Twitter @GeekElite. I always look forward to hearing from fans, and I try to reply as often as I can.
Ignoring all that shilling, my biggest hope is just that you enjoyed what you read here. Those hours of escapism we can find in our favorite prose are some of the most precious in life, and I hope that I was able to contribute a few hours to yours.
Thank you. No, really: THANK YOU.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some think it cliché of authors to thank their spouses for the support they offer. This is not a cliché – it is a genuine acknowledgment of the support that many of us have to rely on for our craft. I am no different. At at time in our life when we’d built a comfortably worryless existence, my wife agreed to give that up so that I could leave my well-paying day job and write full-time. Well, write and do chores.
Christina’s support is the foundation upon which this book is built. Without her by my side, I realistically never would’ve finished it, much less followed through on the heaps of work required to publish it. There are innumerable things about my marriage for which I am eternally grateful. Add this one to the pile.
I love you, Christina.
• • • • •
Although I wrote the text, CONSTRUCT was not a one-person job.
My developmental editor, Annetta Ribken, was instrumental in honing this manuscript into the story you hold in your hands. She pushed me to flesh out those pieces I’d left too vague, and to re-write weaknesses I otherwise would’ve left alone. The key? She didn’t let me be lazy, and it shows in the finished work. You can find her at www.wordwebbing.com.
My copy-editor, Jennifer Wingard, took that “finished” manuscript and tightened all the bolts and cinched down all the straps. Her work is the life-raft that elevates this text above a sea of unedited dreck. Her influence can be felt on every single page. She can be found at www.theindependentpen.com.
My cover artist, Carmen Sinek, was a delight to work with. Her dedication to the beautiful piece that graces this book’s cover was inspiring. She was laid back and understanding, even as I nitpicked and vetoed my way through our collaboration. The finished product so far exceeds my vision and expectations that I fear I’ll start to gush if I continue typing. Oh, wait… I already have. See more of Carmen’s work at www.toomanylayers.com.
Together, these three women elevated my cobbled-together manuscript into a real, live, marketable novel. Thank you, one and all, for your contributions.
• • • • •
There are a few more people I have to thank, starting with Jon Schindihette. I worked with Jon at Wizards of the Coast (by “worked with”, I mean “worked in the same building as”) in the early 2000’s, when he was a Creative Director and I was a flunky. I contacted him on Facebook when I was in the market for a cover artist within my price range, and he was able to give me the names of several artists I could try. Without Jon’s help, I never would’ve found Carmen, and for that, I can’t thank him enough.
After my third draft, Jared Carew did a copy-edit pass on the book before I sent it to beta readers. That pass taught me more about my writing than almost anything that had come before. Even though it was probably a bit early in the process, it made a readable beta out of a pretty big mess, and I have Jared to thank.
And, speaking of beta readers, it’s time to thank the brave souls who provided feedback for one of my early drafts: Chelsea Hallenbeck, Dave McGee, Sam Beavin, and Chris Evans. Thank you guys for enduring a manuscript that likely bears little resemblance to the finished product, in large part because of your feedback.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An unabashed geek, Luke Matthews is a fervent reader, cinephile, gamer, and comic book fan, and he has been an avid poker player since his early twenties. A life filled with so many hobbies doesn’t lend itself to easy devotion to a craft, but when the beginnings of CONSTRUCT found the page, those words pulled him inexorably toward writing, now the primary passion in his life.
Luke lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, three cats, and a rambunctious German wirehaired pointer. You can find more of his words on his blog at geekelite.geekerific.com, or listen to him babble on about comic books on the Trade Secrets Podcast at Geekerific.com.
CONSTRUCT
Book I of The Chronicler Saga
August 2014
Published by Luke Matthews
Seattle, WA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents depicted herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Luke Matthews
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9906508-0-5 (ePub)
www.chroniclersaga.com
v1.0
Construct Page 37
